


In the Closet

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, Borderline-sex, Fluff, Little Peter, Locked In, M/M, Matchmaking, Peter sets Yondu and Kraglin up, Pining, janitor's cupboard, mother hen yondu, shamelessly embraces cliche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Peter makes it his mission to 'help' Kraglin with his relationship crisis. It goes about as well as you can expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I wanted to write something focused on Kraglin and Peter's relationship which kept Kraglin in-character. This was the result!**

“Present for you,” said Yondu, dumping a squirming eight-year-old on his first mate's lap.

His first mate wasn’t happy about this. First, it was his off-shift. Second, he was halfway through an episode of that soap Half-nut and Scrote got him hooked on (it was shit, but it filled the hours between port calls with mindless nonsense, and he had been marathoning it for so long that he felt duty-bound to find out who screwed whose sister in the series finale). And third, as he thought he’d made clear by his avoidance of the brat, he _did not like kids._

Kraglin craned as far away as his chair allowed. “What the flark'm I supposed to do with it?”

Yondu’s yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. It was so humongous that it looked liable to turn into a black hole, at which point it’d consume Kraglin, Yondu, Yondu’s Terran, their ship, their crew, and the star-system they were currently swinging through, speeding around the planets with their thruster-bursts aided by the centrifugal tug of gravity.

“Just sit here and keep an eye on him,” he said, once the yawn had been swallowed and disarmed. “I gotta go punch Horuz. Bastard told the brat he’d be stewed, an’ he spent the whole flutarkin’ night clinging to me.” He snorted. “Should’ve let Horuz make good on that threat.”

Kraglin decided it was in his best interest not to express shock that Yondu had allowed such a flagrant display of misconduct from the kid – or that he’d admitted to it afterwards.

The three of them were alone in the poky rec-room. To be honest, it’d be more of a surprise if they had company. This cubby was private: hidden in the _Eclector’s_ grumbling bowels. Kraglin and his scrubbing partner had discovered it crawling through the vents, while Kraglin was still a rookie relegated to the lowest and most demeaning jobs and Yondu was a respected solo operative who needed to be knocked down a peg on a biweekly basis. Kraglin had suggested they report it to the captain. Yondu had scoffed, stretched the kinks from his back, and tossed his filthy sponge at the far wall. It had landed with a _plop_ behind an ancient rust-crackled radiator, and was probably still languishing there.

“You kiddin’ me? When we could stay here an' get outta work?”

Until that moment, Kraglin never believed you could fall in love in an instant. However, as he teetered on the precipice of retreat and Yondu, the smirky blue asshole who laughed whenever Kraglin got his legs jammed in a drainage grill, lazily caught his wrist and made the decision for him, fell he did. And he fell hard.

Perhaps that’s why he liked soaps so much. They were just as ridiculous as he was.

Five years later and they’d both been promoted, Yondu with the assistance of his arrow and Kraglin with the assistance of Yondu. They were up several thousand units, as well as tallies in their bounty books, recruits, and m-ships. And now, to Kraglin’s displeasure, one very irritating Terran. One very irritating Terran who Yondu had taken it as his prerogative to look after.

It was only supposed to be for seven days. Then the Ravagers would make the rendezvous with Peter’s father, and they’d all go their separate ways. It was simple – nigh foolproof. If it weren’t for blasted _sentiment_ , it would have gone off without a hitch.

Ravagers didn’t get attached. Not to material possessions, and certainly not to people. Money came and went. So did friends, enemies, lovers… Yet for some reason, ignoring all Kraglin's warnings, pleas, and half-hearted threats, Yondu took one look at Quill and made his Ravager-status official. The kid, whose presence in Kraglin’s life was supposed to have been ephemeral – in for a week, out for a week, like any other piece of contraband cargo – became a permanent fixture.

Kraglin’d been pissed at first.

Then charmed – because sure, he’d been a grotty street-urchin, but before that he’d been part of a family. Seeing Yondu tote the kid around, letting him drag on his ragged sleeves and hide under his trenchcoat, brought back all sorts of hazy recollections that Kraglin had considered long-lost. Hands carding the hair out his eyes. Spit-wet thumbs rubbing his cheeks free of dirt. Things Kraglin considered incongruous when thought of in conjunction with a grizzled blue buccaneer, who was feared across the star systems by every species boasting sentience.

But unlike the majority of the crew, this didn't offend him. Yondu’s mothering instincts were nothing short of adorable - to the extent that had they not been drawn out over a matter of months, Kraglin would’ve suspected Yondu was faking them. But after a year of Quill’s company, Kraglin had to concede that this wasn't all some elaborate prank at his expense.

Cap’n kept the kid because he wanted to. And what Cap’n wanted, Cap’n got. It was as simple as that.

Back in the present, Yondu staggered for the exit hatch, moving like a sleepwalker. Kraglin would tell him to go rest and leave bitching at Horuz for the morning – if he didn’t know that ordering Yondu to do something was a surefire way to ensure he did the opposite on principle. The Terran, nervous about being left in the custody of an unfamiliar crewmate, wriggled for freedom. He reached for his retreating guardian.

“Y-Yondu, where’re you going –“

Kraglin restrained him. This was harder than it sounded. Terrans were so… small. And squishy. As a Hraxian, Kraglin was far from the bulkiest species aboard, but at least his bones didn’t feel like they’d shatter at a squeeze.

“Daddy’s gotta do captain stuff,” he said. He meant it mockingly – which is how Yondu took it, if the way he paused on the threshold, about to haul himself into the crawlspace that’d take him back to occupied corridors, and shot his first mate a vehement pair of middle fingers was any indication. But the Terran huffed sulkily, snuggling into his ribcage.

“Okay. Don’t take too long; this guy ain’t comfy.”

Kraglin frowned. “Oi. Just cause I don’t grow _padding…_ ” He pinched the puppy fat clinging to Peter’s underarms. “Need to keep ya exercised, brat. Else you’ll get chubby. Horuz won’t wanna barbecue ya if you’re half-grease.”

Evidently, Yondu’s confidence in Kraglin’s babysitting abilities had reassured the Terran that it wasn’t in danger of being eaten; rather than screaming and flailing, it crossed its arms and turned on his lap to face him, buttonish nose brushing Kraglin’s own. “You wait til I get big and strong! Then you’ll be sorry!”

Kraglin’s answer – an ugly sneer – faded at Yondu’s grumble. His voice grated huskier than ever, laced with tiredness and whiskey-breath. It echoed metallically as his boots vanished into the tunnel: “Kids, kids, you’re both beautiful. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.” Kraglin didn’t know whether to gripe at being included under the “kids” umbrella, or blush at the “beautiful”. That adjective wasn’t regularly applied to him. He opted for the latter, savoring the gravelly roll of the word off Yondu’s tongue. His head went cotton-woollish with happiness.

Then the Terran opened its mouth.

“You’ve gone pink! Why’ve you gone pink? Are you hot? Or –“ Realization dawned over that young face, followed by a wicked smirk. _“Oh.”_

Kraglin, praying Yondu was out of earshot, shoved him to the floor. Observational acuity was a valuable skill for a Ravager, but more important still was knowing when not to exercise it. That talent that had yet to manifest in Peter Quill. Kraglin’s glare was all that prevented the Terran from yapping away, spilling his secret to the stars.

They both held their breaths, waiting on the grind and slam of the hatch at the tunnel’s opposite end. Upon hearing it Peter hopped to his feet, bouncing like a Klyntar on ecstasy, and flapped his hands so hard Kraglin was surprised he didn’t take off.

“You _like_ him? You _like_ Yondu? The captain?”

Kraglin, blushing all the harder, hunched his shoulders and put on his meanest face. “The flark did ya get that idea from, dumbass?”

“You gone the same color my mom goes… _used to go_ … when she talked about my dad.”

“Well, maybe thas just the color my species goes when we’re hungry.” Kraglin tried to concentrate on his soap, but by now his tenuous grip on the plot had vanished. He couldn’t recall which of the multiple bimbos (who he was supposed to believe were medical staff at an intergalactic hospital) was the main character, or why he should care about who her baby-daddy was. “Dammit,” he muttered, plonking his ass back down on the chair. He struggled to follow as one under-dressed nurse scolded another for sleeping with a man who, judging by the astounded reactions of her friends following her outburst, was either the hospital director or the janitor. No chance of jerking off to this crap now. Even less, given that an alien who was in both appearance and mannerisms a prepubescent stood not five feet away, engrossed by the action onscreen.

“Why do they have tentacles?”

And here came the questions. Kraglin sighed. “Ya don’t just ask why folks have tentacles. Or why they’re blushing, for that matter. Don’tcha know nothin’, brat?”

“Ha!” Peter jammed a jubilant finger under his nose. “You admit it! You were blushing! Over the captain!”

“Yer translator must be on the fritz!” At least the brat’s ridiculous accusations gave Kraglin an excuse. He could blame his red tint on anger.

He and Peter watched the soap together. Well, Kraglin watched. Peter bounced. Peter also asked questions about everything from who cut Kraglin’s hair (Gef; the idiot was surprisingly nifty with a razor) to why there was so much rust everywhere (because this part of the ship hadn't been sprayed in anti-oxidation coating this decade) to what on earth Kraglin saw in the captain.

Kraglin answered in clipped sentences, single words where he could manage it. But the last query gave him pause.

“Not Earth,” he reminded him. “Yer Terra’s a long way away.”

For a moment, Peter’s face crumpled. Kraglin, struck by the awful certainty that he was about to start crying, groaned aloud. By the stars, what would he do then? Console him? Dump him in a corner and tell him to keep it the flark down? Yondu didn’t expect him to _hug_ him, did he? Kraglin had seen Peter cry enough to know that Terrans leaked mucus from every visible orifice – and no doubt a few of the ones that were hidden for decency’s sake as well. He’d already washed his jumpsuit this month, thank you very much.

But Peter collected himself. He pursed his lips to stop them trembling, dug his chin into his neck so it wouldn’t wobble, and glared. “Yeah, well so’s your home!”

“I don’t got a home,” said Kraglin honestly. He waved a hand at the murky room, taking in the scuffed access-grill, the doddery lights. “This girl’s all I have.”

“Oh.” Peter’s voice was wondering, and a little sad. “Did Yondu steal you, too?”

What? Where’d the brat get that idea? Gaze flicking from the screen – it showed an A’askavarian dramatically slapping a Kylorian in the face, the crack echoing a little early and the Kylorian’s head turning a fraction too late – Kraglin stared at Peter aghast. “No one stole me, idiot. I joined up all on my own.”

Peter goggled. “You _volunteered?_ ”

Kraglin didn’t like the way he said that. There was no need to sound incredulous – not when he didn’t know shit about what Kraglin’s life was like, before he took the flame. The Ravager schooner that’d clunked out of the sky and opened its hatches to fresh meat was the best thing that’d happened to him in a long time. “Ain’t no volunteer neither. I get paid.”

“Yeah but like… You wanted to be a space pirate?”

Kraglin crooked an eyebrow at him. Perhaps there were more cultural differences between Hrax and Terra than he assumed. “Don’t all kids wanna be space pirates?”

“Well _yeah,_ but…” Apparently, the kid decided that they’d maneuvered far enough through this conversation to be steadfast friends. He hopped onto the bench besides Kraglin and shuffled in until their shoulders bumped. All that stopped Kraglin from craning away was the thought of Yondu paying an unannounced visit. The only thing worse than being caught snuggling with the kid was acting like he was afraid of him. “The Ravagers aren’t _fun_ space pirates. Not like Han Solo and Chewbacca. You don’t get to kiss princesses, and most of you are bad at one-liners. And you smell.”

Kraglin curled a lip, glaring at his screen in the hope that Peter’d evaporate if he only kept him out of his sightline long enough. “Don’t know what no _Choo-backy_ is.” Peter had little knowledge of the practicalities of Ravaging. Really, he ought to be grateful that Yondu kept him off the front lines. Kid was confined to ship, let out on port-leave only when Yondu would be there to guard him and deemed it unlikely that they’d run into any altercations. Accidents always happened and fights were always picked. But Peter never got to see them. Yondu made a point of tapping the brat’s headphones before he joined the skirmish, telling him to crank the volume and shut his eyes.

“Don’t wanna raise a psychopath,” is all he said when Kraglin confronted him about it. Which was fair enough, but Kraglin’d seen plenty of dead bodies by the time he was Peter’s age, and he considered himself a model of sanity.

The silence following his dismissal of the Choo-backy reference was punctuated by the harsh, jarring sobs of the main character on screen. Kraglin chanced a glance, and found Peter staring at him rather than it: tilting his gormless pink face this way and that as if all he needed to understand Kraglin was the correct angle. Kraglin stabbed him with an elbow. “Quit it.”

Peter yelped. But he didn’t stop staring. Annoying little shit. “You didn’t answer my question! Why’d you like Yondu? He’s weird and old and blue. And… well, a _he._ Or are you a girl?” A gasp. “Wait, is _he_ a girl?”

Kraglin pinched the wrinkles on his forehead. He could swear they were deepening, after only five minutes in the brat’s company. “Don’t tell me yer one of them _sex-is-only-for-reproductive-purposes_ races. You lot are the most infuriatin’ army of nutcases in the galaxy, and believe me, I’ve met some contenders…”

“What’s sex?”

Oh, by the stars. He did not get paid enough for this.

Kraglin drew his knife. In one utilitarian sweep, he’d knocked Peter onto his back and balanced the blade on his windpipe. “No more talking,” he said.

Peter gulped. His Adam’s apple made the knife twitch. The metal – warmed from its stint in Kraglin’s inner-sleeve guard – creased his skin, just shy of slitting the tender freckled Terran-flesh. He didn’t dare nod. But Kraglin saw defeat in his eyes.

“Good,” he said. Cleared his throat. Sat again, stiff and hunched and a little awkward now the moment had passed, and changed the channel on his holo-viewer.

Peter didn’t say another word, not even when Yondu came to collect him again, preceded by another gaping yawn. He crawled ahead of Yondu into the tunnel, seemingly unable to leave Kraglin’s company fast enough. Yondu blinked after him when his customary greeting – a light smack to the head – was met with silence.

“He behave?”

Kraglin pretended to have only just registered his presence, feigning engrossment in his holo screen. “Yeah,” he muttered, ears heating. Flark, even the sight of Yondu tired and rumpled, getting to the end of the day shift with his pink eyes almost blue with bloodshot capillaries, made his heart jolt about in his chest. “He behaved, alright.”

 

* * *

 

Luckily, Peter was terrible at holding grudges.

It took three days for him to talk to Kraglin again, and then it was with a smile so large it looked in danger of falling off his face. Kraglin eyed him dubiously, before turning back to his breakfast. He was in the mess hall, the clunk of corrugated food-flaps a percussive backdrop that undercut the usual hubbub of conversation and traded insults.

“What?”

“I need your help. Yondu says it’s okay to ask because, uh, you’re being _‘a lazy layabout good-for-nothin’ who don’t deserve the pittance I pay him_ ’.”

It was a pretty good impersonation. Kraglin, whose shift didn’t technically start for another half hour, had every right to argue. But he figured what the hell. The captain trusted him like he did no other. While he’d never broached the professional boundaries of their relationship (unlike in Kraglin’s daydreams, where Yondu would do more than flirt with him as he flirted with everyone) he was still close enough to share almost everything with Kraglin: moonshine, profits, weapon stock. Apparently he wanted to add childcare duties to that list.

He screeched his stool back, pushing the half-eaten slops away. “What d’you want.”

Peter’s grin grew impossibly wider. “I was messing about on Bridge so cap’n put me on scrubs, but I can’t get the janitor closet open. I was wondering if you’d help?”

O- _kay._ Something fishy was afoot. Kraglin frowned, peering down his long nose at the cheerful pink face beyond it. No one was supposed to look happy about punishment duties – that was the whole idea. “And ya ain’t gonna use the excuse to take the day off and play,” he said slowly.

Peter’s smile became a little plastic. He let it drop, hemmed into his fist to recover, and valiantly reinstated it. “Don’t got anyone my age to play with, do I? And there’s not much point playing space pirates by myself. Like you said, I am one now. Gotta face up to reality right?” He sighed. “That’s what Yondu’s always saying. _Walkin’ round with yer head in the clouds’ll only get ya dead, boy. One day I won’t be around to save yer sorry ass.”_

Damn, he was good at this. Amused despite himself, Kraglin swiveled on his seat to face him. “Say somethin’ else in that voice.”

They’d already amassed a little audience: Gef and Taserface pausing in their game of ‘who can catapult the most food into each other’s beard’, and Wretch cocking half an ear (literally, thanks to a stray plasma-bolt on their last job).

Peter, ever the performer, bounced on his toes. “Like what? Like what?”

“Oh, I dunno –“

“Wait, I got just the thing!” Why did Kraglin get the feeling he was gonna regret this? Peter held up a finger, a signal for _wait_ , and scrambled to sit on the chair next to Kraglin, up on his knees to emulate their boss’s height. Then he grabbed Kraglin by the shoulders, looked him dead in the eye, and said – with full seriousness and a hint of a wink – _“I love ya, idjit.”_

His creole-Xandarian was a bit too exaggerated, but that could be a spillover from the translator in his neck. His voice was nowhere near husky enough, and his skintone was a long way from the blue Kraglin liked to imagine waking up besides and running lazy fingertips over on drowsy off-shift mornings. But it was still enough to turn Kraglin fluorescent.

Behind him, Half-nut whooped with laughter. “F-flark!” he wheezed, stomping his boots and jiggling his arms as if his mirth needed a physical outlet. “Cap’n and Kraggles – that’s flarkin’ hilarious!”

Any tension caused by Peter’s play-acting gig broke. Gef giggled. Wretch cackled. Taserface outright guffawed, and sauntered over to pound Kraglin between the shoulderblades.

He backed off at Kraglin’s snarl. Just because the captain was allowed comradely thumps of his bicep didn’t mean that courtesy was extended to the rest of his crew.

“Sheesh, Krags. Don’t get so pissy. It was just a joke.” He leaned in, scrutinizing Kraglin’s face. “Unless… it ain’t.”

They held that stare a long time. Or what felt like a long time when you were clamping down on your tells, channeling your frustration at your captain’s pet Terran into your scowl.

Taserface’s sneer was as potent as his breath. He towered over Kraglin, staying just out of biting range, a big fry-faced silhouette that blocked all light from the overhead solar-panels. Kraglin progressed from glaring, to glowering, to showing his teeth. He actually got to the point of laying his hands flat on the table, threatening to turn Taserface’s powerplay into a full-out posturing match, salvageable only by a fistfight or worse. Taserface's grin spooled over his raw-meat mug just in time.

“Flarkin’ hilarious,” he decreed, giving Kraglin’s Mohawk a ruffle. He made it sharpish – smartly, as Kraglin had bitten through bigger rocks without needing a dentist. “You an’ the cap’n… S’like something from that dumbass soap.”

Kraglin couldn’t even be glad he wasn't the only one who indulged in that guilty pleasure. Blood still pounding in his ears, he rose to his feet and caught the still-chortling Terran by his collar. “C’mon brat,” he growled. “Where’s yer damn storage cupboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things I love: mother-hen Yondu who gets doe-eyed over every cute thing in the galaxy (but tries his utmost to hide it) and snarky, sour, and most definitely not-soft Kraglin who's constantly chasing after him and stopping him adopting things.**   
>  **Things there's not nearly enough of: mother-hen Yondu who gets doe-eyed over every cute thing in the galaxy (but tries his utmost to hide it) and snarky, sour, and most definitely not-soft Kraglin who's constantly chasing after him and stopping him adopting things.**
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> **Oh yes, and if you think that Kraglin and Yondu aren't going to wind up locked in that cupboard together... you're wrong.**
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> ****  
> ****  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

To access the damn storage cupboard they had to scoot through one of the _Eclector’s_ many crawlspace levels: a narrow strip between hallways lit only by buzzing powercoils.

It was cramped and claustrophobic and lurid red. The unflattering light made Peter’s pink-toned face look feverish and Kraglin’s yellower skin downright sickly. They crawled in silence, punctuated by the creaks and groans of the ship around them (as well as by Kraglin asking whether Peter was sure they were heading the right way).

The _Eclector_ sprawled like a city. While Kraglin pretended to know it as well as the hairy, sinewy backs of his own hands, in truth he didn’t have time to go exploring like he used to.

In fact, with his shift starting in five, he really oughta tell the brat to manage his own problems and go about his day. And he would’ve done, if Peter had mentioned that this little excursion involved cramming the two of them through a hamster-tube-sized space suitable only for contortionists and prepubescent Terrans, which would throw Kraglin’s back in five entirely new and exciting ways.

He groaned as they emerged. Peter, who had whittled away at the screws holding the rusty vent plate in place with a pocket screwdriver, propped it against the wall while Kraglin unfolded like a stick insect.

He popped his spine. Frowned, twitched, and popped it in the other direction. And realized, to his shock, that he had no idea where they were.

That was impossible. Kraglin may not have meandered through the _Eclector’s_ dense internal labyrinth in years – not since he was a rookie with too much time on his hands and a blue buddy to keep entertained. But he wasn’t senile yet. He didn’t just _forget_ places.

Yet his mind informed him that this hall, similar as it was to every other dull, grimy, industrial corridor that peppered his old girl’s body, was entirely unfamiliar.

“Vuja de,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. Or a similar Xandarian concept – some things were beyond translation.

His jumpsuit was coated in a fine layer of dust. As was his skin, and his hair, and Quill, as if the pair of them had just crawled out of a graveyard. Kraglin brushed off his lapels. Then, just to check – 

“Uh, we ain’t been eaten by an interdimensional Beyonder or nothin’, have we?” Because he couldn’t think of any other reason why corridors might pop into and out of existence.

Peter shook his head. He laughed as the dust fluffed up, as if his skull had been exchanged for a lady’s powder-pouff.

“Beyonders ain’t real,” he said, with the sort of surety only an eight year old could muster.

Kraglin squinted at him. “Who’s been fillin’ yer head with such nonsense?”

All Ravagers knew to beware lights in the dark when you were drifting along the fringes of deadspace, beyond where the last stars had extinguished around the galaxy’s edge. Who knew what was trying to lure you closer?

“Yondu,” said Peter simply. Then, before Kraglin could be irritated (because why keep Peter off the dinner menu if Yondu planned on delivering Quill straight to the Beyonders’ larder?) he looked abruptly embarrassed.

“Heard Tasie telling Half-nut about them when I first arrived. Didn’t sleep for a couple of nights. Yondu told me they was just pulling my leg, and that I didn’t have to worry because if he’d stopped the Ravagers eating me he could handle a few, uh, _stupid space-dwellin’ angler-fish_ no problem.”

You didn’t describe the Beyonders aloud. Kraglin shuddered. “Call ‘em ‘Beyonders’, kid. Just like everyone else.” But his heart wasn’t in the chiding. He felt the tug of a smile at the thought of Yondu grumpily plopping Peter on his lap in front of a portal, pointing to the distant blackness, and telling him it was all gonna be okay.

Lies, of course – if a Beyonder set its sights on their ship, Yondu and his nifty arrow trick would be about as useless as Kraglin’s pickup lines. But cute, nevertheless.

Peter was smirking at him. Kraglin glared. “What.”

“You’re making that face again.”

Oh for the love of the stars.

“Don’t look then!”

Kraglin stalked ahead, forcing Peter to trot on his heels or be left behind in this dim metal tomb. Tomb was a fitting metaphor; it felt like they were walking through catacombs, the light panels flickering with age and the portholes so crusty that the colors of the nebula were indistinguishable, rich turquoises and lurid reds blurring into brown.

Kraglin hiked his shoulders a little higher. He refused to be uncomfortable on his own damn ship. But perhaps this gave him a tad more respect for the brat, if he ambled round creepy places like this solo.

“Where’s your stupid cupboard got to?” he cut in, when it seemed Peter was happy to jabber about anything and everything except the job in hand – including his music, his favorite Terran films, and his scathing reviews of the Xandarian equivalents. “You better not be leadin’ me in circles, is all. Unlike you, I got work to do. The captain relies on me.”

“Mm-hm. And you _liiiiiiike_ it.” Kraglin cuffed his ear. Peter bore the blow with as much dignity as a giggling brat could.

“Cupboard,” he snarled. Peter pouted but did as he was told.

“Okay, okay! Sheesh, anyone’d think you didn’t like my company.”

Kraglin ground his teeth. “Dunno where ya got that idea.” Peter had either gotten better at ignoring sarcasm or he was genuinely that oblivious, because he beamed at Kraglin and latched onto his sleeve.

”Not far,” he said, tugging before Kraglin could ease him off with a swift application of boot. “Promise.

 

* * *

 

There weren’t nothing special about the cupboard, not from the outside. Kraglin gave it a once-over, just in case it was actually a well-disguised airlock, making this a plan for Peter to usurp his position as first-mate.

Then he recalled that not only was Peter a child, but he was also not an especially bright one. He was grinning because Kraglin was making it easier for him to get started on his daily chores list; that was more than enough indication that cap’n’s pet Terran was a few bolts short of a spaceship.

Kraglin rolled his eyes at him. “Dunno what yer so excited for. If this is the area yer supposed to clean, you’re doing it on your lonesome. Don’t think I’ll stick around to help.”

And with that, he yanked open the door.

He yanked it open with gusto.

He yanked it open with so much gusto that he almost popped his shoulder from the socket, because Peter claimed to be unable to do so himself.

While he was a mite of a thing, Kraglin assumed that meant there would be at least a little resistance. He found himself staring at a dank empty hole, not a broom or bucket in sight. He thought he spied the dry husk of a spaceroach nest in one corner.

Kraglin rotated his sore arm, wincing. “Sorry kid,” he said. “Not only are ya lackin’ some serious upper body strength, but I think ya picked the wrong cupb-woah!”

Peter, grin still in place, took the opportunity to prove there was more power in his little arms than Kraglin had assumed.

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later and Kraglin stood with his back pressed to the cupboard wall and both feet off the ground. He used his body as a lever, straining as he tried to wedge open the door.

Useless, he knew. The lock had _somehow_ been coded to respond to Peter’s prints alone. How the kid managed such a feat, he had no idea. Sure, Yondu’d taught him to pick a lock – but this went beyond that. Maybe Peter had been taking tips from Half-nut on the sly?

There was one thing for sure though. Kraglin had been played.

He’d been played well and truly, a casino chip flipped between Quill’s little pink fingers. This really _was_ a power-machination.

Stupid! How could he have underestimated the brat? Sure, the kid had never shown any capacity for cunning, but that only made him more dangerous. If Kraglin looked at things from an analytical perspective, all the threads wove together.

Peter had turned the majority of the Ravagers against him by lieu of being small, annoying, fluffy, and cute. But more importantly, he’d turned them against _Yondu_ (or at least made them mutter behind cupped hands that _Yondu’s gone soft_ , and _Yondu cares for that damn brat more than he cares for money,_ and other such blasphemies that deserved to be silenced with a whistle).

Ergo, Peter was evil. Peter had to go.

Kraglin gave the door a mutinous kick. Not _mutinous_ -mutinous, because that implied he wanted to depose his captain. Kraglin wasn’t like Peter; he didn’t betray those who’d done him good (not unless there was money in it. But even then he’d dither, if it was Yondu’s life on the line).

He only wanted to go against some of Yondu’s orders – a few very select ones, which revolved around Peter’s continued longevity.

Unfortunately for him, the next time the door opened he didn’t get a chance. It turned out that when you were propped between door and wall, and one of those barriers suddenly vanished, the only way to go was down.

Kraglin landed painfully on his tailbone. His captain landed on top of him.

He bounced up again soon enough, either not registering the identity of his cushion or too incensed to care. “Quill!” he roared.

Quill’s laughter rubbed Kraglin’s eardrums like a cheese-grater. “Best get comfy, captain! You two are staying there until I’m done cleaning!”

The cupboard was tall and thin, like a lift-shaft in miniature. Between the grill in the ceiling, which opened onto the crawlspace through which Kraglin had accessed this special level of hell, and the cracked door-seal, there was just enough light to see.

Right now though, impaired vision was the last thing Kraglin focused on. He replayed that instant of contact over and over, as he laid crumpled with his neck bent at an awkward right-angle against the skirting board.

The weight and warmth of Yondu’s body where it crashed into his.

The way his thighs squeezed Kraglin’s hips in shock as he caught his balance, grabbing Kraglin’s shoulders for stability.

Those lips, which pursed on instinct, shaping a whistle that would fell the kid with a single note…

Okay, so maybe that last one shouldn’t have been a turn-on. But Quill had pissed him off. Kraglin was well within his right to fantasize about his captain ridding the Eclector of its annoyance-slash-mascot.

Not that that’d ever happen. Even furious with Quill – giggling outside – Yondu fought to hide his fond smile. Kraglin kicked him in the calf.

“Don’t you dare say ‘boys will be boys’, sir.”

Yondu glared. There was no real malice behind it – just as there was no real malice directed at Peter, which Kraglin was less pleased about. But he at least managed to inject some into his voice when he made his threat.

“Dammit Quill! If ya think this door’s gonna stop me catchin’ ya… You lil’ shit, yer back on the menu!”

Peter’s receding laughter indicated that the kid was either brave, stupid, or he’d suffered Yondu’s empty threats one too many times for them to be effective. Perhaps a new voice would help? Kraglin added his own to the mix.

“An’ if he doesn’t gut ya, I will!”

He expected Peter to meep and flee – or better yet, unlock this door, free them, and promise to hand-scour the space-grime that accumulated in every crease on a Ravager coat from all of their outfits for the next five years. He wasn’t expecting Yondu to round on him, hauling him up by the collar and pinning him to the wall.

“Don’tchu threaten my boy, Kraglin! He’s _mine_ to kill!”

By the stars. Was this really the same Yondu whose poker-face won him games against mind-reading Celestials? He was so transparent that Kraglin would have been embarrassed on his behalf, were there anyone here to see.

However, no other Ravagers were hurled through the door to join them (Kraglin paused a moment, just to make sure). Therefore, he was justified in finding Yondu adorable.

Adorable and entirely too close.

Yondu’s face pressed near enough to kiss. Kraglin was tempted – he’d be lying if he claimed otherwise. But the waxy light from Yondu’s implant didn’t disguise his snarl.

The glow highlighted each tooth. Those with metal caps were more reflective than the yellowed enamel, making Yondu’s mouth a colorful trove of pinks and crimson. The combined brightness from the implant and the phosphorescent gleam of his eyes darkened the stripe around the doorframe in comparison.

This cupboard must’ve been missed when Yondu ordered the crew to affix hermetic seals to every room in the old galleon, so there was always one in sprinting distance in case of hull breach. It definitely wasn't vacuum-proofed. Wasn't even soundproofed! As the navs were fully capable of piloting the _Eclector_ into an asteroid belt if left for fifteen minutes without Kraglin or Yondu’s supervision, by the end of today Peter might well be adding ‘assassin’ to his repertoire.

“Captain,” Kraglin said, struggling to keep his voice even. With Yondu’s proximity, it hitched up and down the octaves like that of a boy a decade his younger. Kraglin cleared his throat. “Captain, we both got jobs to do. We can’t let the brat get away with this.”

“And he won’t!” Yondu insisted. But he was contorting his face to make it look angrier. Sighing, Kraglin raked a hand through his Mohawk, careful not to bash his captain in the confined space.

“You’re trying not to smile, aint’cha.”

“Who, me?” 

“Yer thinkin’ how proud you are he got the drop on us.”

“Proud? Pissed off is what I am, Obfonteri. Don’t you dare insinuate otherwise.”

“You ain’t gonna punish him at all.”

Yondu drew to his full height. Then, realizing how much taller Kraglin was, pushed onto his toes as well.

“Who the fuck d’you think yer talkin’ to, Kraggles?”

_My captain. My best friend. A guy I’d very much like to fuck._

Kraglin shut his eyes. Not that that helped – he could still feel Yondu’s warmth, smell the fragrant blend of whiskey and leather and bad breath. He was so damn close. Anyone else and he’d think Yondu _wanted_ him to make the first move, _wanted_ him to crush him back against the door and chase that taste back into his mouth…

But this was Yondu. And Yondu took what he wanted. If what he wanted was to kiss Kraglin, there’d have been a tongue battering his tonsils ages ago.

Something had been digging into his thigh since they stood. When Yondu tapped the arrow his hipsheathe glinted, revealing itself as the culprit. Kraglin swallowed his sigh.

“Could whistle through the lock. No guarantee the door would open.”

He rolled down the balls of his feet until heels brushed ground and Kraglin’s gaze was on level with his implant. Then pointed up, over his head.

“Nah, if we’re getting out of here, it’s that way.”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin struggled to brace himself against the wall, lock out his knees, and not succumb to the overwhelming awareness of Yondu’s thighs, which were wrapped around his face.

From the back, unfortunately. When his captain had shucked off his coat – swearing as he smacked shoulders and elbows off the door, Kraglin, and everything in between, but refusing any help – and started to climb the walls, Kraglin had been dubious.

Now, Yondu having deposited himself on his shoulders, he was doing his best not to hyperventilate.

He and Yondu hadn’t shared more than a casual touch in years. In _ever._

Whether it was Yondu catching his wrist to make him stay in their secret rec-room, a shackle of blunt blue digits and sultry red eyes; or Yondu pounding Kraglin on the back after a successful heist; or the glancing touch of their fingers as they worked the pilot’s plinth together during the skeleton-shift, spooling data from the holographic drive and charting their course in a synchronized couples’ dance; contact had never been prolonged. It had never been forced. And it had never been anything less than professional.

Okay, not _professional._ Pirate admiral or otherwise, you wouldn’t find a professional molecule if you skimmed Yondu head to toe with a Shi'ar medi-scanner. But… filial. Comradely. Space pirates were expected to fuck robot-whores, not each other.

Even if Yondu did reciprocate, he’d be prevented from acting on it by the gazillion unspoken rubrics that governed Ravager life. Which meant that here and now, far from the prying eyes of the Bridge crew, Kraglin and Yondu were free to touch all they pleased.

Hypothetically.

“I gotta come at this from the other side,” gritted Yondu. His head was tilted up, engrossed in the grill he was sawing through. He whistled, a shrill peep that reminded Kraglin of a bird being squeezed, and the arrow darted to the far end of the grating and began its back-and-forth rasp anew.

Yondu leaned towards it, propping himself on the wall over Kraglin’s head.

“Nope,” he said, after a long ten seconds' worth of squinting at his progress while Kraglin wobbled and swore internally and valiantly maintained his balance. “Gotta do this differently. ‘Scuse me.”

And, using Kraglin’s head as a grip, Yondu squirmed around until he had his legs hooked over Kraglin’s shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back.

_Stars above._

Kraglin took a deep breath. Then regretted it, scenting leather and musk and _Yondu_.

He grabbed Yondu under the ass – to stabilize him, of course. And Yondu, that bastard, grunted his thanks. He crushed his leatherclad groin against Kraglin’s mouth as he wound fingers through the narrow slats of the grill and heaved.

A grind. A creak. A drizzle of dust that daubed them both in grey.

“Ah- _choo!_ ”

“Careful, idjit.” Yondu’s legs clenched in reproach – which really didn’t help matters. “Yer carryin’ precious cargo here.”

Kraglin, eyes watering and lungs half-closed, knees wobbling inwards both from the weight and the amount of blood currently diverted below his belt, managed not to choke.

“Right you are sir,” he squeaked.

He dug his fingers into the meat of Yondu’s ass and endeavored not to nudge his zipper with his nose. Given the size of that nose, this was doomed to failure – but at least he tried. His panting breaths swept Yondu’s crotch, fogging the leather. And even if Yondu only saw him as a subordinate, a friend, a co-worker, and an occasional-babysitter, it had to be doing _something_ – because a blue hand dropped to bury itself in Kraglin’s hair.

Not quite pulling him away. Not quite steadying him, or keeping him pinned with his face tight to his groin. But _there_.

Yondu brushed dust from his eyes – then Kraglins’ too, as Kraglin couldn’t do it himself. The skate of fingerpads over his eyelashes, uncharacteristically gentle, made Kraglin’s air catch in his throat – and promptly trip over all the inhaled particulates that had taken up residence there.

He coughed. Their human tower rocked.

Desperate measures were required. Yondu, clinging to the grate with one hand and Kraglin’s hair with the other, crossed his shins to clasp Kraglin tight – so tight he almost smothered him. But as his options came down to inhaling all that dust and dying a very real death from lung cancer, or dying a little death between Yondu’s thighs, Kraglin gladly took the latter.

At least when they fell they took the grate with them.

The drizzle became a downpour. There was dust everywhere, accumulated sediment that had gusted through the ventilation system, clogging in the overhead tunnel. It was cloying, choking, heavy as ash.

There was only one thing to do. Though Kraglin had landed on his back – and stars above, but he’d be feeling this in the morning – Yondu was still kneeling over his face.

Kraglin pressed forwards. He used Yondu as a dustmask, nuzzling in until he was all Kraglin knew, felt, smelt.

Hot leather, warmed by Kraglin’s hungry exhales.

Slick blue flesh.

That this blue flesh remained encased in the leather was inconsequential; Kraglin was right where he wanted to be in the universe, and nothing could pry him out bar Lady Thanatos herself.

…Or his captain, who shuddered against Kraglin’s mouth, staving off coughs of his own. And who was tugging at Kraglin’s hair with something approaching desperation. “Krags, stop. Stoppit, Krags.”

Orders. Kraglin froze. He’d bared his teeth, incisors pressing through the leather into where Yondu was most tender. He could feel his pulse, a rapid thrum against his drawn-back lips.

He pulled back a little way. Realized he was still kneading Yondu’s ass, arms looped under him, although Yondu was as good as sitting on his chest and there was no way he’d be falling any further. And, glimmering wetly in the light of Yondu’s implant was the spitty smear he’d left, right over the bulge in his captain’s pants.

Oh _flark._

“Sir,” he gabbled. “Sir, I didn’t mean…”

Like that was in any way believable. Yondu gave him a sceptical look. Kraglin cringed low in his collar, thumping his head off pipe-lined wall in the hope he’d knock himself out and forget all this.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, on a different tack. It was kinda hard to look at a guy seriously from between his legs. But with Yondu pinning him, weight settled solid on Kraglin’s sternum, he didn’t have a choice. “The atmosphere… You were too close…”

That weren’t no excuse. Kraglin exhaled. Started again.

“M’sorry. I got carried away. I shouldn’t’ve done that, boss. And I ain’t never gonna do it again.”

The _unless you want me to_ dangled between them, unsaid.

Yondu scooched back along his chest. It wasn’t nearly far enough to assuage Kraglin’s urge to haul him back. He twitched as his crotch accidentally rubbed on Kraglin’s ribcage, whose attempts to rise and fall had been defeated by his captain’s weight. Then, after a moment's consideration, Yondu ground down more deliberately.

Kraglin’s hands flew to his waist. “Sir!”

“Shaddup,” Yondu grunted. He didn’t look at Kraglin, but his eyes shone brighter than ever. And although it could just be the red light distorting his natural coloration, Kraglin could swear that his ears were navy.

The rings in the lobes jangled as Yondu dragged himself further down Kraglin’s belly, until he straddled his hips. Panic set in – because if Yondu rocked back, he’d know how much this affected him…

Yondu rocked back.

Stupid loose jumpsuit.

“Well,” said Yondu, after a moment’s pause. “Maybe that dumb Terran don’t deserve to die after all.”

Personally, Kraglin was still up-in-the-air about that. But right now he was grounded. Quite literally, in fact. He was pinned flat-out, and he was willing to say anything, do anything, if only Yondu would start squirming about on top of him again.

“Right you are sir,” he gasped. Long fingers fluttered along Yondu’s sides, trying to find an appropriate place to latch on and hold. When Yondu relocated them to his ass, sighing through his teeth, Kraglin could only squeeze the warm muscle with an awe that bordered disbelief. This was actually happening. Him and Yondu. Yondu and him…

“Okay guys!” Peter’s cheery voice filtered under the door. “Shift’s over. Now, do you promise not to stab me once I unlock this, or do I gotta leave you in here for another hour?”

“The last one,” Kraglin ground. His nails bit through the leather seat of Yondu’s pants with enough force to make his captain’s grin lurch into something startled, then feral, then abruptly delighted. “Definitely the last one.”

His captain arched back, hands flat on Kraglin’s chest and pressing so hard it risked turning concave. Judging by his grin, he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope you enjoyed my poorly edited trash! Now leave a comment. Please? :D**

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me comments, any time, anywhere. I love them and I love you.


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